


Three Square Meals

by neomeruru



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Disordered Eating, Hospitalization, M/M, Major Character Injury, Polyamory Because I Said So
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-21 23:15:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14295576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neomeruru/pseuds/neomeruru
Summary: When food becomes scarce, Ignis takes a calculated risk. It doesn't work out well.





	Three Square Meals

**Author's Note:**

> Written and originally posted for [this prompt](https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/4747.html?thread=9633163#cmt9633163) on the FFXV Kinkmeme.
> 
> Baby's first FFXV fic! I have... arrived.

The fresh fruit and vegetables are the first to go.

 _And behind War rode Famine, and Pestilence goes with her,_ Ignis thinks to himself as he scours the armiger for anything that might have been secreted away without his remembering. Alas, his inventory is as impeccable as he'd feared. He manages to retrieve two carrots, an onion, and a head of greens already half gone brown when it'd been stowed a few nights ago. The dimensionless interspace of the armiger had kept it in stasis well enough, but even it couldn't heal the ravages of time.

The sight of barren farms had become more common the farther they got away from Insomnia, moving deeper into captured Niflheim territory. Some had simply been abandoned, some were the sickly umber of bad harvest; more still had simply been torched, blackened frames jutting up like daemons crawling out of the earth and horrors underneath.

Ignis drives quickly past those ones.

There's still people, though, and people need to eat. Where Ignis remembers being able to stop at the side of any road and buy peaches and corn warmed by the sun, he's seen a scant handful of stalls on their current journey. Those they'd _had_ come across had been in dire straits, staffed by hard-lipped teenagers who'd squinted at Ignis's tailored clothing and all but spit in the dirt instead of selling to the obvious tenderfoot.

Early on, he'd split half his haggled groceries - _far_ more expensive than he'd supposed was fair, even considering the arithmetic of the crown to gil exchange rate - with a mother and her three children, feeling a certain kinship with her plight. He wouldn't go so far as to say he _regrets_ having done it, but he does think wistfully of the meal he could have made with it while he chops the last of the vegetables into a stirfry.

There's not quite enough to round out each plate as much as he'd like, so he carefully proportions three plates and a fourth smaller one for himself. It's his fault for not keeping a closer eye on their supplies, for not buying more when he'd had the chance, for not insisting he drive straight to Lestallum where the food is more plentiful when Noctis had suggested they detour a few days to knock out a hunt first.

One night's empty stomach is a fitting consequence.

Noctis turns his nose up at dinner, of course, the delicate curl of his lip underlit by campfire as he pushes the wilted greens around on his plate to get at the cubes of garula. Ignis all but hisses when Noctis flicks a sliver of carrot off his fork and into the flames and Prompto catches his eye, quickly reaching over and sliding the rest of the offending vegetables onto his plate. Prompto, at least, respects hunger.

Later, Noctis is about to scrape his greens into the fire when Ignis clears his throat. "If his Highness would be so kind as to leave his plate, I'd use the scraps for vegetable stock tomorrow," he says, trying to keep his voice mild.

Noctis raises one expressive eyebrow at the formality, and instead vanishes the plate into the armiger. Gladio cuffs him on the shoulder before pointedly walking the five steps to put his dirty plate by the cookstove, but by that time Noctis has similarly vanished _himself_ into the tent along with Prompto, and Ignis allows himself a small exhalation to center himself on something other than irritation.

Gladio shoots him a sympathetic look as he starts washing up, mistaking Ignis's sigh - if one could call it that, and Ignis certainly wouldn't, as Ignis would never _sigh_ at the prince - as some sort of bonding ritual vis-a-vis their shared charge. "What else do you need for tomorrow?"

Ignis stands and straightens his vest, making a show of thinking a few moments. "A hare, perhaps," he hedges, "though any small game would do, if you would be so kind."

Meat skewers are hearty on their own, and distracting enough that the others likely won't ask after what became of Ignis's plans for vegetable stock.

Gladio makes a short but thoughtful noise, rubbing his cheek with his shoulder as he's up to his wrists in a tray of soapy water. "I'll set the traps tonight, see what we can get," he says. "Game's been getting more scarce."

Of course it is. Ignis feels a muscle in his jaw leap, and he clenches down until it submits. "Anything you catch will do quite fine," he says, taking up space beside Gladio and shooing him away. "I do have this in hand now, thank you."

Gladio shoots him a grin and shakes his hands free of the soapy water, splattering them both. Ignis clicks his tongue, but Gladio just laughs and leans over to kiss his cheek - a thrilling thing between them still, even as the world conspires to sap the pleasure from everything else. Ignis finds himself smiling fondly as the sound of Prompto's laughter lilts through the camp, and the rustle of bodies in sleeping bags, and the conspicuous silence following after.

These things are worth protecting.

Later still, when the haven fire has lost its warmth and illuminates their camp in sentry blue, Ignis retrieves Noctis's plate from the armiger. He sits down beside the fire and eats slowly of the last of their fresh food, forcing himself to savour every bitter bite.

—

The tinned vegetables run out a few days later, around the same time they double back through the deserts of Leide and the game dries up with the water. Ignis despairs they seem to be getting _farther_ from Lestallum and the promise of its marketplace, but Noctis seems to be driven by some singular purpose that remains opaque to Ignis. Every day he thinks, _surely we will turn back soon_ , and they do, but not with any great speed. Luckily, Ignis is resourceful.

He requires less than the others: Gladio with his physique, Prompto with his metabolism, and of course Noctis with the greatest burden of them all. It's no hardship to simply take less. Sometimes, to take none at all. Hunger is simply a signal.

The body complains a great deal when forced even slightly out of its comfort zone. Ignis is quite adept at handling complaints.

After that, though, it's hard even for Ignis to conceal that their meals have devolved into variations on potted meat and carbohydrates. Fresh food is nearly impossible to come by at outposts, and the price of tinned food has climbed nearly out of reach of their shallow pockets. He catches Noctis and Gladio splitting a strip of fruit jerky and a bag of wasabi peas behind Longwythe and frowns so intensely at the wastefulness of both money and calories that he almost feels faint.

As a concession to variety, they turn in their hunt and use the proceeds to purchase a box of protein bars from Dave, who's kind enough to markup the price by only a fraction provided they promise to bring back another handful of dog tags.

The dog tags end up near enough to the reported location of a royal tomb that Noctis muses they should press on instead of returning to civilization immediately. Ignis considers the box of protein bars, weighing the immediate hardship of losing a day of rations _now_ versus losing two or more to backtrack _later_. It's a close decision, and Ignis finds himself biased towards a third option: throwing up his hands and yelling until Noctis gives him leave to drive to where food does not come in rectangular cuboids.

In the end, Noctis decides to stay the extra day. That night, Ignis plates the protein bars as best he can and presents them with a solemn face to the others, which at least gets a few smiles.

The bars are bland and distressingly both chewy and dry, with berries that stick to the teeth and a cloying aftertaste that lingers even the next morning. Ignis contemplates his morning ration while the others strike the camp, eating while they work.

If he eats it slowly over the course of the day, he thinks, the benefit is two-fold: he need not choke down more than one bite at a time, and his share of the entire box will be lighter. The others seem less repulsed, so it's only right they eat as much as they like.

He dutifully takes a bite and washes it down with half of a bottle of water, mindful of the importance of hydration when nutrition isn't readily available. Nutrition, hydration, and rest: the necessities of survival. He volunteers to stay behind with the Regalia when the path turns rocky, and when the other three return that night heavier by one spectral weapon, Ignis does not know.

He wakes sometime in the very early morning to motion, blinking as the darkness coalesces into the shape of Noctis at the wheel. He's drumming his fingers, eyes sharp for daemons, practically brimming with restless energy. Prompto and Gladio are snoring in the backseat, soft and syncopated.

Ignis reaches out and brushes his knuckles against Noctis's thigh, and Noctis's gaze flits over as he fixes Ignis with a radiant smile. In the light of the dashboard, he looks like a spectral creature himself.

"I did it," he breathes, taking one hand off the wheel to lace their fingers together. "One more down."

Ignis can feel his eyelids getting heavy. "Wonderful, Noct," he murmurs. It takes quite a bit of effort to form the word. "Simply marvelous."

Noctis huffs a little laugh and squeezes Ignis's hand in his. "Couldn't do it without you, Specs," he says.

The corner of Ignis's mouth twitches like a smile, and he means to deny the praise, but all that comes out is a hum of appreciation before he falls back into the dreamless dark.

—

They drive for the better part of the day. For lunch, Ignis doles out the last of the potted meat on crackers. Gladio finds some sort of edible flower by the roadside and sprinkles the yellow blossoms on top, bringing to mind the canapes they used to serve at the Citadel at various state functions.

And never would again, which casts enough of a pall over the meal that Ignis refrains from eating more than one. His stomach is killing him, anyway, but by this point he can't tell if it's truly hunger or simply poor diet. He sips water as Noctis drives with the top down, letting the sun warm him. He's been so cold, recently.

Noctis, for the most part, seems content to drive. He keeps one hand on the bottom of the steering wheel and keeps a protein bar in the other, abysmal form and even more abysmal taste, but sometimes Ignis closes his eyes and they're much farther than he remembers them being when he opens them again, which is fine. It's fine. Everyone is safe, and he isn't called for a turn at the wheel until the sun starts slanting down towards the horizon.

Noctis pulls over at a rest stop overlooking a lake, eyeing the water with some intent. "Fish for dinner tonight, I think," he says, scratching his chin with his knuckles. "We've got rice, yeah?"

Ignis cannot remember. He sits up and tries to get his bearings, squinting into the sunset. Are they facing west? _Six_ , they were returning to Longwythe from Duscae, there's very little reason to be driving into the west. His stomach plummets and he feels himself grow clammy. "I— hmm," he stammers. He can feel every hair on his body prickle under his clothes. Distressingly for his caloric intake, his bowels clench like he's about to be sick.

"Iggy?"

Gladio's voice, sounding tinny and far away. Ignis swings his head to the sound. "I think — there's wild rice in the area, if I recall correctly. Prompto could gather some while Gladio stays with Noctis."

The door handle is in his hand. He pulls it and all but slides out of the car. His body feels like it's in three places at once. Buffering. Ignis lets out a sharp laugh.

 _The only thing separating civilization from anarchy is three square meals,_ Ignis thinks. King Regis told him that, one of the times he pulled back the Wall to better protect their core. Only Noctis is king now, and Ignis is — he isn't — he's having trouble remembering the specific details. Only that he is expected to do something. Dinner.

"I'll take the Regalia and prepare the haven," he says, gesturing down the road in the direction of - what he thinks is the direction of - a blue smudge of haven fire. He's quite certain.

Gladio's look of alarm tells him he may have been mistaken. He crosses his arms and puts one foot up on the center console. "Nope," he grunts. "We're sticking together."

Ignis lets out a noise of frustration. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Prompto's head swivel between them, hands open and placating, ever the peacemaker. "Whoa, whoa, whoa," he says, "Iggy, you don't look so hot. Why don't we just let Noct keep driving until we all get to the haven? We can eat something there! And tomorrow morning, we'll start again fresh!"

It feels like Ignis's whole body lurches. He puts one hand on the door to steady himself. "Eat something?!" he barks. It comes out too loud, and Prompto flinches. "More weeds and potted meat? We're all out, I'm afraid!"

The world moves. Ignis doesn't. He feels his whole body go cold all at once, his vision going dark around the edges until all he sees is Noctis's shocked face. The earth heaves and Ignis falls to one knee, hand sliding down the door of the Regalia. Then all too quickly there's a sound like a bell, and a white hot lance of pain through his head eclipses everything else.

—

It's dark. They're driving, sideways. Ignis's leaden body lurches from side to side, unfamiliar with the physics of lying down in the backseat. Every jerk sends a new shock of pain through his skull, just as bright and inescapable as the first.

"—at do you mean, _there's nothing left_?"

There's panic in Noctis's voice. Something in Ignis leaps to try to smooth away that fear, to serve, but he can't seem to form words. He breathes; it comes out noisier than expected. A whine, even.

There's a straw in his mouth. "Drink, Iggy."

Gladio's low rumble vibrates in his head. Oh, but he does so love his voice.

The phantom tug of someone scrolling carelessly through the armiger prickles at the top of his spine. "Seriously, dude, there's nothing," Prompto says, a couple octaves higher than usual. "There's like, a box of salt and some herbs 'n shit."

The straw is removed from his lips, repositioned so water falls into his mouth instead when Gladio removes his finger from the other end, like an eyedropper. Like a baby bird. Ignis _hmphs_ at the implication he can't even manage to keep himself hydrated, and turns his head away.

Gladio's big hand cradles his face, thumb under the peach-bruised skin of his eye and fingers curling around his jaw. He keeps Ignis from moving. "Lie still and let me fucking take care of you for once, _dickhead,_ " he says.

Ignis doesn't remember much after that.

—

It's wrong to say he wakes up, because in truth it doesn't feel much like sleeping. The rest of the night passes in snatches of conversation, the steady hypnotic march of streetlights sliding through the windows of the Regalia. Ignis remembers the night in strobes of light and sound.

When he comes to — that is, when he starts remembering consecutive moments longer than a few seconds — he finds himself in a medical bed. One of the desert outpost clinics, likely. High little windows throw squares of red sunlight on the painted mudbrick walls. The cot sheets are crisp and clean. He's lying on his back with his arms at his sides, connected intravenously at the elbow to a clear bag of fluid overhead.

He flexes his fingers. His skin feels tight.

The movement rouses the blonde head tucked into Ignis's side. Prompto looks up blearily, blinking away sleep. "Oh, hey buddy," he says softly, as if he doesn't really expect Ignis to hear. "Are you awake again?"

Prompto grinds the heel of his palm into his eyesocket and yawns. When he stretches, a little sliver of stomach peeks out from under a t-shirt so well-worn Ignis has never been able to distinguish a logo.

"You're wearing— sleep clothes—" Ignis mumbles, and Prompto's gaze sharpens all at once.

"Hey!" he says, leaning forward. "You're awake? _Really_ awake? How's the head?"

As if summoned — or more likely, because he attempted to turn his head on the pillow — pain slices through Ignis's skull, so bright and so fierce he can almost _hear_ it, momentarily blanking out the details of the room. When he blinks, his vision spits black like a fire belching up sparks.

Safer to not, then. "Hurts," he admits, trying to move his lips as little as possible.

Prompto makes a sympathetic noise and digs in the blankets. He holds up a small remote. "Hold on, I've got something for that. All aboard the painkiller train! Choo choo!"

Ignis exhales through his nose — it's close enough to a laugh — as some arcane machinery of tubing and analgesics works its magic. Nigh instantly it's as if someone's turned the vibrancy of the room down by half, and within a few moments he's able to focus on Prompto's smiling face.

"Better?" he asks, setting one elbow on the bed so he can prop up his chin. There are dark circles under his red-rimmed eyes. "You seem better. The last few times I did that, you went right back to sleep."

The prospect of having inflicted his extended care on Prompto makes Ignis nauseated with shame. He swallows; it's a seemingly more complicated process than he's used to, and it takes a few tries to work up the coordination. He doesn't quite know what to say. Perhaps he should thank Prompto for his kindness, though he knows from experience that such thanks tends to make people, Prompto especially, uncomfortable.

In his silence, Prompto sneaks his other hand into Ignis's and holds tight. "You've been in and out of it all day," he supplies without prompting. "The concussion's the worst part, actually. You hit the pavement pretty hard."

Prompto's thumb strokes the back of Ignis's hand. He looks down at the floor. "But... um… they were really worried. About something more serious. Like, heart failure, or something." He laughs, nervously. "I guess… it'd been a while, huh? Since you took care of yourself instead of us. And none of us fuckin' noticed. Some friends, right?"

The enormity of the umbrage he takes with Prompto so casually underestimating their friendship renders Ignis speechless. He would do _anything_ for them. Has pushed himself to the farthest limits of endurance for them. Ignis has never been confident with words of love, but service is something he knows, something he gives freely. He doesn't expect anything back. He knows himself, and what he has to offer.

That's too many thoughts to put into words. "Where's Noctis?" he asks, instead.

Prompto's mouth twists in a knowing smile. "Sleeping. Drove all day, then when you collapsed he drove all last night until we got here, then insisted on staying up with you until after lunch. Like _he's_ the only one who was worried, you know? Gladio had to wrestle him out of the room, or I think he'd still be here."

"I must have looked a fright," Ignis concedes, "Imagine, Noctis sacrificing sleep."

Prompto's gaze darkens. "Yeah, well," he mumbles, "He was really scared. We all were."

For a while, there's just silence as Prompto keeps looking down at their hands, slowly tracing the protruding bones of Ignis's knuckles with his thumb. "Iggy," he starts, then winces. "Iggy, I'm so sorry. I should have seen it."

"Prompto—"

"No, Iggy, look. I — I know what it's like to struggle with food, okay? But you can't… you can't just… you _have_ to eat. Even if it fuckin' sucks."

" _Prompto_ , it's not—" Ignis tries again, but Prompto squeezes his hand hard.

"Just let me say it once, okay? Even if it's not what's really going on, I'll say it just in case it is, and then you can do whatever with it." He gulps a big fortifying breath. "Look — Iggy — you're, like, a ten out of ten, okay? Like, way hotter than any of us chuckleheads, and that's saying something, 'cause we've got a _prince_ and a _Gladio_. So even if I don't _get_ it, 'cause you're already perfect… if you wanna… talk, about stuff… I'm just saying, you can talk to me about it, okay? I've been there."

Carefully, navigating the jumble of tubing and monitors, Ignis brushes the knuckles of his other hand against Prompto's forehead, over an acne scar normally hidden by his fringe. "...I appreciate your concern," he says, softly. "It is misplaced, but it is appreciated. I simply didn't want any of you to suffer, when I could do so in your place."

Prompto crumples into Ignis's side, scrubbing his face on the scratchy linens. "Okay. Then just don't do it again."

Ignis's hand curls so neatly around the back of Prompto's head. "I won't."

—

Noctis and Gladio arrive about an hour later, looking worse for wear. Noctis immediately climbs into the bed, draping himself over Ignis like a lounging couerl. Gladio stations himself on the other side of the bed opposite Prompto, and the three of them together take up almost all available space in the room. Ignis is glad his vision's stopped swimming; the sight of all of them is overwhelming.

Noctis's face is pressed into the side of Ignis's neck. "This is a disciplinary action," he mutters.

Ignis laughs and dares rub his cheek against his prince's feather-soft hair. "One in nearly twenty years isn't bad, I suppose," he muses, and Noctis's arms tighten around him. "I do apologize for the fuss, your highness."

"Don't _your highness_ me right now."

"You just said—"

"—this is a _boyfriend_ disciplinary action," Noctis grumbles. "It's different. More important."

"Ah," Ignis concedes, stroking Noctis's back as best he can while still connected to the intravenous drip. With fluids and nutrients and painkillers in him, he feels miles better already. "I apologize, regardless."

Gladio _hmphs_ and crosses his arms. "The man nearly starves to death, and he apologizes for the inconvenience."

"It was hardly _to death_ , Gladio. I am still here."

" _Nearly_ ," Gladio repeats. His body language is hard, but his eyes and mouth are fond as he looks down at Ignis in the bed. "Have the courtesy to warn me next time you wanna make out with the pavement."

Ignis smiles, hiding it against Noctis's hair. "I shall."

In his arms, Noctis twists like he can't get comfortable. The entire length of him is still sleep-warm, radiating heat. "Don't sacrifice yourself for me, Specs," he says finally, after a series of false starts Ignis can feel against his collarbone.

"I will and I must, Noctis," Ignis replies, gently. "It is duty, but it is also my privilege, to be able to lessen your burden."

He gestures expansively to the small room. "Though, I will attempt in the future to keep you apprised of such situations, lest we end up here again."

Prompto slaps the bed and stands up, "That's the most Ignis thing you've ever said, man!"

Ignis lifts one shoulder eloquently. "I cannot help but be who I _yam_."

Beside him, Gladio groans. "Please don't give him a _raisin_ to turn this into food puns."

"Humour in trying times is _off the menu_ , then?"

" _Ignis!_ "

**Author's Note:**

> I write! I draw! I make julienne fries! Your comments literally sustain me! Join me [on Tumblr](http://chaoslindsay.tumblr.com) or [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/neomeruru) for my fanart and other stuff!
> 
> This fic is remix-friendly: I give blanket permission for non-commercial translations, podfics, remixes, inspired fanfic, and fanart! Just let me know where you put it, so I can make sure others see it too!


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